one last third friday
crawling on the ceiling
fingers laced into power-lines
tight in the breeding-cage
wrists dressed in stainless steel chains
swallowing your pride

a pale narrow room
tucked into your mouth
your smile flickers technicolor
hate porn on 8mm tape
your ears find soundtrack lullabies
soliciting five fingers

into a hard glass bottle
a crumpled photo of god
folded between your thighs
your moist latex skin
growing ghosts between your fingers
in a panorama of still-life

an offer in your pocket
junkie flavored hand-job
in the memory of errol flynn
one last sunday ride
carried in an aluminum coach
you're playing hide and seek

with freshly bandaged eyes
gold key in your back
cheap wind-up whore
your captured celluloid hero
filtered through a slide-projector
an evening at seventeen